C4 101-1 - Olivia Stephani

Painting in red, flashes of what could be and voices that aren’t my own. I wonder if it will be like this forever, the rage kissing the good, the emptiness kissing the bad. How many conversations can I remember to forget. Salted or sweet. Both or neither. I perform well when I paint in blue, swirling and stumbling. Bic lighters, stale crackers, the smell of rotting flesh. White turns to pink to purple to yellow. I only think in multiples of five.

Hallowed, consecrated, rendered holy by the white coat. Slather it on my body and roll me through the hot air. Peace is prosperity. I ride the cherry waves and press the pedal. Emptied out by a flush draw, odds are stacked against me. 1 in 120 only sounds bad if you say it out loud. Splitter. Silver Linings. Solitude. I prefer to take the pound of flesh from myself.

Lie with me in this bell jar and watch the noise around us quiet. A spark only becomes a fire if you let it.